


One Oh Three

by greyskygirl, superstringtheory



Category: Actor RPF, Captain America (Movies) RPF, Marvel Cinematic Universe RPF
Genre: Caretaking, Chris Evans is a protective St. Bernard, Cuddling, Fever, M/M, Sick Character, Sickfic, Vomiting, sweet sick bb
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-31
Updated: 2017-06-28
Packaged: 2018-11-07 11:15:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11057793
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greyskygirl/pseuds/greyskygirl, https://archiveofourown.org/users/superstringtheory/pseuds/superstringtheory
Summary: He already canceled Chicago. Sebastian's not canceling Austin, too -- even if maybe he should.





	1. Austin

**Author's Note:**

> So this was always going to happen, ever since those reports came out of WW Austin last fall that Seb was sick. We are only human weirdos, after all, and so ... this fic happened, and so did [this glorious meme](http://whowaswillbe.tumblr.com/post/151062579273/i-dont-even-know-what-to-say-about-this-but-i). Also, there will be more to come -- we have so many ideas on the subject of Seb. Being sick. In the world.

He wakes up Friday morning in his own bed and groans. The mattress is familiar, the pillows are comfortable, the sheets are soft: all that’s good. It’s no luxurious Irish hotel room; it’s his things in his space, just the way he likes it. But Sebastian knows he’s sick as soon as he swallows.

He can’t _be_ sick, that’s the thing. He can’t be sick because he’s flying to Austin and spending two solid days giving hugs and signing his name and posing for pictures and talking, talking, talking. His throat’s always hoarse after a convention anyway, because he chats nonstop through photo ops and autograph sessions. And if he’s starting out feeling like he might’ve swallowed a razor blade -- yeah, it’s not good.

He could cancel, but that thought’s brushed aside as soon as he processes it. Chicago is fresh in his mind still: the wave of anger and disappointment that met him on Instagram after the announcement had knocked him off his feet, left him stunned in its wake. Sebastian’d expected the disappointment; the anger was a surprise. He’d found himself apologizing for the job that was taking him away, even though these are, presumably, his fans, which means there’s a baseline understanding that he’s an actor and will, occasionally, have to act.

It seems like his role this weekend is going to be healthy, happy actor who is completely not miserable and should totally not be home in bed.

And he wants to go -- he loves meeting the fans and sharing their enthusiasm about Bucky and the vibrant force of their energy, even if he’s going to be drawing on that energy this weekend like a vampire. When he manages to get out of bed and stumble into the bathroom, he winces at his reflection. His cheeks are sporting a telltale flush, and he puts a hand to his forehead with a sigh. Jesus. 

He takes a quick shower, hoping the hot water will be soothing, but the spray feels like needles on his skin, and he’s sweating when he steps out of the water. He glances at his hair and sighs. That’s not a battle he has the energy to fight. He glances longingly at the sweats in his closet and grabs a pair of skinny jeans. The sweats go into his suitcase, along with more skinny jeans, tops he can layer and a favorite leather jacket.

He chugs half a gallon of orange juice and grabs two boxes of DayQuil/NyQuil at the corner bodega before the Uber comes. This is as ready as he’s going to get. 

***

He dozes on the plane, in that uncomfortable way that’s a combination of illness and being ill at ease. A first-class seat doesn’t mean no one’s going to snap a picture of him drooling in his sleep. He straightens in his seat as the plane descends and stifles a moan. Probably there are no elves hammering his skull with tiny, terrifying tools, but that feels like a real possibility. His head’s full, and it aches, and he wants to just slink down into the plane seat and tug his blanket a little closer.

Except now they’re landing. And deplaning. And he’s standing, shouldering his carry-on and shuffling down the aisle and into the terminal, and then there’s a sign with his name, and a plush backseat that he slides into gratefully. That’s all he knows until the driver clears his throat. 

“Sir, we’re here.”

Here is the hotel and not the con, and he’s got no official obligations until the next morning, which is the only thing that cheers him enough to propel him out of the car and into the lobby, where he’s quickly ushered upstairs. He sags against the mirrored wall in the elevator. For the second time that day, his reflection makes him wince. Those spots of color on his cheeks mean nothing good, and the rest of his complexion is startlingly pale, a blank page. 

The hotel room feels chilled as soon as he flops on the bed, but when he manages to drag himself over to the thermostat to check, it’s at a perfectly normal room temperature. Ugh. Time for some NyQuil, that’s for sure. 

Sebastian shuts his eyes for just a minute, but then he blinks blearily and the room is semi-dark and his phone is ringing, buzzing loudly against the wood top of the nightstand. 

“‘lo?” Christ, but his throat hurts. 

“Seb? Is that you?” Chris sounds like he’s laughing. “You sent me a weird text when you got to the hotel, buddy, and you sound a little out of it. Did you just get back from going out?” 

Sebastian sits up, runs his free hand through his messy hair, and shivers. 

“No.” He moves the phone away from his mouth and stifles a cough into his shoulder. 

“No?” Chris’ tone immediately changes. “You okay, babe?” 

Sebastian clears his throat and that hurts too. “Yeah. Just… just really tired. And… a little sick, maybe.” He concedes this last part when his voice sounds like he’s been gargling glass. 

“Fuck,” Chris says. “That came on fast, huh?” 

“Yeah.” Seb swallows and regrets it immediately. “Felt fine yesterday.” He coughs again, and Chris makes a little sound of sympathy. 

“Sorry I’m not there,” he says. “I knew I should’ve booked the Austin con.” He sounds more regretful than Sebastian thinks is necessary. He’s just got a little sore throat, he’s _fine_ , really. 

“‘S alright,” Sebastian says, moving over to the side of the bed and putting his feet on the floor. God, he’s still got his shoes on and everything. “I’ve got some meds.” 

“Yeah?” Chris still sounds jumpy, like he’s going to do something crazy like fly down to Texas and whisk Seb out of his autographing session and into bed. “Well, go take some now,” he instructs. “You’ve got a lot of shit to do tomorrow.” 

Sebastian sighs through the unbelievably difficult act of untying his shoes and ends up just toeing them off at the heel, halfheartedly kicking them across the room. “Okay.” He stands up in sock feet, shivers again. 

“Okay,” he repeats. “I better go, Chris. Should shower and go to bed.” 

“All right,” Chris says, low in his ear, “But you let me know how you’re doing, okay?” 

Sebastian nods before remembering that Chris can’t see him. “Okay.” 

They say the usual goodbye’s and I love you’s and then Sebastian’s on his own again. On his own and sick. And with a full con weekend ahead of him. Fuck.

***

Maybe, just maybe, he’d feel a little less daunted by the weekend ahead if his obligations ended in Texas. But from there, he’s flying straight to Atlanta, and he’s got to be on set the next morning. In a racing jumpsuit. In the heat and humidity of Georgia in August.

“Fuck” is going to be a constant refrain this weekend.

He wakes up groggy and doesn’t bother trying to open his eyes. Throat: in flames. Head: possibly stuffed with actual cotton balls. Body: aching like he’s been through a full day of stunt practice. He cracks one bleary eye open and glances at the clock. He’s got an hour. Time for a shower, meds and all the iced coffee he can choke down.

Chris has texted him four times since Sebastian got in the shower, and when he gets out, still feeling muzzy and chilled in a way that really does _not_ bode well for the rest of the weekend, he swipes through the messages without responding. First, he needs to try and look at least somewhat alive. Bucky may be at least technically a cyborg, but Sebastian needs to look fully human for his weekend full of photo ops and Q &As and signing photos of his own face. 

He downs a cup of cold water from the sink and swallows Advil, chasing it with a shot of DayQuil. He screws his face up more at the pain in his throat than the taste of the medicine and runs both hands through his hair. God, what he wouldn’t give to be still sleeping right now, sleeping in his own bed and his own blankets, pressed up against his own boyfriend. 

After getting dressed seems to sap the rest of his energy, Sebastian doesn’t even try to do anything with his hair. The fans have always liked the floof, right? Well, today they’re going to have to. 

He gives himself one last pep talk in the mirror before heading downstairs-- he knows that he can’t disappoint the fans, not after Chicago. He can’t have con reports saying he was cranky or out of it or unresponsive. He has to give it everything he has today, and tomorrow, and then hope there’s a few dregs left for Atlanta. 

***

The Q&A session is a blur, and when he watches clips of it on instagram later, he’s impressed with his own acting ability. He doesn’t sound half-bad; a little hoarse and congested at times, but for the most part, he sounds maybe a little tired, maybe a little under the weather, but nothing at all like how he really feels. 

He texts Chris back during a short lull between autograph sessions. 

_Feel okay. DayQuil’s doing its job._ Thumbs up emoji. 

It’s a blatant lie, but Chris doesn’t need to know that. And neither does anyone else. Sebastian will get through this on his own, no problem. He’s been sick before, and he’ll be sick again. So what if he’s at a convention for the weekend and has to look healthy and energized in dozens of photos with fans? So what if he needs to talk for hours on end when his throat feels like raw sandpaper? It’s fine. He’ll be fine-- but god, does he wish he didn’t have to be. 

It’s his handler-- whose name Sebastian _cannot_ remember for the life of him-- who asks for a break after the second-to-last photo session, whispering to the people in charge of letting the next fans through for their photos. 

“Mr. Stan?” She approaches the chair Sebastian’s all but collapsed into. 

“It’s Sebastian,” he says, his voice catching in his throat. “Call me Sebastian.” He coughs a little and wipes his nose with his sleeve. Disgusting but necessary. 

“I think you should take a break.” She sounds like she’s been gearing up to say this, rehearsing the words in her head. “I think you need some more coffee, maybe?” She eyes him critically. “And some Tylenol, _definitely_.” 

“Ugh.” Sebastian sniffs hard and then regrets it as the pressure in his sinuses makes him wince. “That obvious, huh?” He runs his hand under his nose again and smiles a little sardonically. 

“No, not really. At least for the fans. You’re doing great, uh, Mr., uh, _Sebastian_. Great. But up close you kind of look sick as shit. And sound like it too,” she points out as Sebastian turns to cough into his shoulder. 

“Well,” Sebastian shrugs. “Can’t really pick when the plague hits you, right?” He tries for humorous but even he can tell it falls flat. He’s too tired for anything beyond just making it through these last two photo sessions. 

“Here.” The handler’s bending over, digging in her purse, and suddenly Sebastian remembers her name-- Julie. That’s it. 

Julie straightens back up, holding a travel compact and a powder brush. “This okay?” She asks, stepping closer. 

“Yeah. Thanks, Julie,” Sebastian says, obediently shutting his eyes and letting her swipe a little anti-shine powder onto his face. He must keep them shut a little too long because then Julie’s palm is on his forehead and neck, feeling around. 

“Shit,” she says. “You feel really warm.” 

“Nope. Not me. Chill as the Arctic, you know? As cool as cryo freeze.” He slits one eye open to see Julie’s unimpressed face. “Come on, work with me. Power of positive thinking.”

He ruins it with a coughing fit that leaves him bent over, trying to suck in a deep breath.

“Mm-hmm,” Julie says. “Chill.” She hands him a tissue. “You know you’re sweating, right?”

***

He survives the rest of the day, though it feels like a close thing. He kisses a pink giraffe and guiltily hugs dozens of people, wondering all the while if he’s a one-man plague, and tomorrow everyone in the convention center will look and sound like him.

Misery loves company, after all.

But company is the last thing he wants right now; it’s bed he craves. Well, Chris’ company would be an obvious exception: scruff and warmth and a solid chest to rest against … it’s a terrible train of thought, because he wants it, wants Chris. And Chris isn’t here.

He makes it back to his room and settles for FaceTime.

Chris picks up on the first ring, looks immediately indignant and concerned. “What are you doing?” he demands, in a way that’s incredibly reminiscent of Steve Rogers. 

Sebastian shrugs one shoulder up and down. “Facetiming you, I thought,” he says, his voice cracking on at least two syllables. 

“Fuck, Seb,” Chris says, exasperatedly. “You didn’t tell me you were _this_ sick.” 

“I’m not, I’m not,” Sebastian protests, coughing. “Really. I’m just--” 

“You look like shit,” Chris interrupts. “And Julie says you have a fever.” 

Julie! That little nag. 

“How’d you know Julie?” Sebastian asks finally, floundering for something to say. 

“She was my handler last con. She works for Wizard World. She texted me to say you were super sick.” Chris’ arms are crossed over his chest, and Sebastian’s not even distracted by how good that makes his biceps look. He’s too busy clearing his throat, painfully, and then coughing into his sleeve. He’s really not making a good case for himself here. 

Chris is talking when Sebastian manages to stop coughing. “...cancel tomorrow?”

That sounds like something he needs to have repeated.

“What?”

“Maybe you should cancel tomorrow. I mean, you’re not doing anyone any favors if you collapse.”

God, but Sebastian loves him and all his overprotectiveness. Chris is like a St. Bernard on a rescue mission-- or Captain America taking down the evil agents of V.I.R.U.S. 

“I”m not going to collapse.” 

“You sure about that?” 

Sebastian sighs. “Look. I’ll order some room service tea, okay? Will that make you happy?” 

Now that he mentions it, hot tea does sound kind of good. He’s still shivery and achy, and maybe this will make him feel a little better. 

Chris still looks grumpy and skeptical, but he returns Seb’s sigh with one of his own. “Fine. But maybe try taking a bath, too, okay? I mean, you know I love you, babe, but I’ve gotta say: you look like shit.” 

Sebastian coughs. “Thanks.” 

“No, I mean it,” Chris says. “If I were there I wouldn’t let you out of my sight.” 

Sebastian knows this, and at least that soul-level warmth can help him. “All right,” he says, rallying himself to actually get up. “How about this. You text me what you’d do if you were here to take care of me and I’ll do my best to do it, okay?” 

“Okay,” Chris says, then leans into the camera, unsmiling. “You better.” 

They sign off, and Sebastian’s exhausted all over again. He had to play it down a lot for Chris, amp up his energy as much as he could so that Chris wouldn’t freak out and insist that he cancel tomorrow’s events. If Chris knew how badly Seb was really feeling, Chris would bundle Seb in hotel comforters like a straightjacket and not let him out of the room. 

As it is, the comforters look pretty damn inviting right about now. But first, Sebastian places a call down to the concierge, and then starts the bath water running while he waits. 

***

The herbal tea arrives underneath a silver dome, along with the cough syrup and digital thermometer. Sebastian takes the mug and places it on the bathroom counter and then squints at his own pale face in the mirror while he waits for the thermometer to do its thing. 

_102.4_. Ew. No wonder he feels, looks, and sounds like shit. Sebastian puts the thermometer’s cap back on and goes to check the bath water. It’s hot, but not too much so- just the perfect temperature to soothe his aches and maybe loosen up some congestion. Not to mention finally warm him up-- he’s been freezing all day, keeping his leather jacket on even in the convention hall, where he’s normally boiling in a t-shirt. That, more than anything else, is what told him he was really sick. No one else was wearing leather over layers of long sleeves in a crowded convention hall in Texas in August. 

Before undressing and climbing into the tub, Sebastian knocks back a shot of the cough syrup and places the tea mug on the floor next to the tub for easy reaching. Even getting ready to relax is exhausting; he figures he’s got just enough energy to tug his jeans off and step into the tub, and then he can stay there. You know, forever.

He’s grateful Chris isn’t there to hear the pained noise he makes as he tugs his jeans down his thighs and toes them off. Sunday’s for sweatpants, he’s making that decision now. Air rushes over his bare skin, and he shivers, hurrying into the tub.

Sebastian slides into the water with a groan of pure relief. Even without the fancy bath salts he makes no excuse for enjoying at home, his muscles welcome the warmth. He sinks down and rests his head against the back of the tub, and the cool porcelain on the back of his neck is as welcome as any pillow. And for a minute, body at rest, surrounded by soothing heat lapping at his skin, he feels okay.

Okay enough that he must doze off, because his eyes are closed and the water’s only lukewarm when his phone dings with a text notification. He sits up hurriedly, displacing the calm bathwater, and fumbles an arm over the side of the tub for his phone. Which is mocking him from the bathroom counter, sitting innocently a few feet out of reaching distance.

His mission is clear: exit the tub, get the phone (and obey whatever concerned order Chris has sent) and then sleep. When he stands, all the warmth his body’s absorbed seems to instantly vanish, and he sighs, grabbing for a fluffy, oversized towel and tugging it around him halfheartedly in a way that does little to actually dry his skin.

_You didn’t fall asleep in the tub, did you?_

Chris, as always, knows him too well. Sebastian’s sigh turns into a full-body shiver, and he hurriedly dries himself off and downs another few Advil with a wince. He texts Chris back after he’s under the covers up to his chin. 

_Nope, I’m in bed already. Snug as a bug._

Chris sends back a skeptical-looking emoji face, and then types rapidly. _Okay, babe. Sleep tight. I love you._

Sebastian sends back a few heart emojis, and then listlessly sets his alarm for the next morning. Maybe he’ll wake up feeling better? At this point, it doesn’t seem likely, but he’s still willing to hope. Just one more day of the con, then to Austin, then filming, then-- _then_ \-- back to home and Chris. 

***

Even though the time on his phone says that he must’ve slept at least eight hours, Sebastian wakes up the next morning feeling anything but well-rested. Everything hurts, from his toenails to his eyelashes, and all he wants to do is go back to sleep and not get up again until Chris is there, with his big, cool hand on Sebastian’s forehead and his big, strong arms holding him tight. 

But alas. He’s not at home. He’s in Austin and he’s alone and sick and he’s going to have to spend the day trying to look attractive and not-dying for photo ops that people have paid hundreds of dollars for. And then, to cap it all off, he won’t even get to snuggle into the hotel comforters after all that; he’ll get to schlep over to the airport and get on a plane to Atlanta. At least it’ll be a short flight. Small mercies. 

His phone dings after he’s laboriously gotten dressed, and he swipes up to see a message from Chris. 

_Hey babe. Good morning! How you feeling? Still running hot? ;)_

Sebastian smiles, feeling a little better already. 

When he checks his temperature, this brief good mood abates a little, but he brushes that aside. He’ll just pop a few more Advil and some DayQuil and he’ll be good to go. Just one more day. (And a flight. And then filming.) He can do this. 

***

He meets Julie behind the curtain around his autographing area. 

“This always makes me feel like the Wizard of Oz,” he says to her, and by the look on her face, his voice sounds about as awful as he expected. 

“Here,” Julie says, and hands him a large iced coffee. “I figured you might be needing this.” 

The autograph sessions go fine- a blur of sipping endless iced coffee and a feverish haze of scribbling his name over and over. He chokes down soup for lunch and washes it down with more iced coffee. 

By the time the afternoon photo sessions roll around, he’s so bone-tired he wants to tell everyone that he’ll only do photos with him sitting in a chair, but he can’t. Not after Chicago, and the instagram backlash. 

So he poses. He dances and dips ladies and makes smoulder eyes and meme faces. He picks girls up and even hops on a guy’s back for a piggyback ride. He does everything he’s asked and more, and by the time it’s over, he’s used up every possible reserve of energy and he just lets himself sag against the wall as he waits for the security team to escort him to the car waiting to whisk him to the airport so he doesn’t get mobbed. 

Julie tsks over him as they wait, trying to give him cough drops and lukewarm water. 

“You’re all flushed,” she tells him, and Seb’s too out of it, too sick and tired to even try for a quip. “Maybe time for more Advil, yeah?” 

He slits his eyes open. “Just took some,” he says, and his voice is totally wrecked. 

Julie taps her phone, and Seb can’t even muster the energy to glare accusingly. “I know what you’re doing.”

“My job,” Julie says primly. “Which, at this point, is making sure you make it out of here. Then you’re somebody else’s problem.”

She smiles at him and pats his shoulder gently. “Come on, let’s get you out of here.”

***

The flight to Atlanta passes in a blur of more meds and more iced coffee. Too much of both, maybe, but he’s fighting to function, and the day waiting for him tomorrow is nothing short of daunting. He sinks into the airport seat and tries to focus on the bed waiting for him at the end of the flight. And the six or so hours he’ll get to spend in it.

For his part, Chris is trying to turn long-distance caretaking into an Olympic sport. Sebastian did his best to answer the flurry of worried texts that kept his phone buzzing from the convention center until he switched it to airplane mode.

_When do you have to be on set tomorrow? What scenes are you filming?_

_Do you have enough meds?_

_Do they know how fucking sick you are?_

Early. The most physically taxing ones. There aren’t enough meds for this, judging from the past few days. And Jesus, of course not. 

By the time he makes it to the hotel, he’s so out of it that he declines Chris’ first attempt at FaceTime.

He calls back on the regular phone, too exhausted to fake feeling any better than he is. 

“Sorry,” is the first thing out of his mouth, like it’s his fault he came down with the plague this weekend. “Just really don’t feel good.” He’s horizontal by this point, on the bed with the side of his face smooshed into the hotel pillows. 

“I know, babe. I know.” Seb can just imagine how Chris is running his hands through his hair and tapping his foot with nervous energy on the other end of the line. 

“Is there anything I can do?” Chris wants to know. “Can I Grubhub you some soup or something?” 

The noise that comes out of Sebastian’s mouth is more like a moan than a word. He clears his throat to cover it. 

“I’m okay,” he manages. “Not really hungry.” 

“Okay,” Chris says, sounding serious. “But one can’t subsist on grande iced coffees alone, especially not one who’s as sick as you are.” 

“Mmph.” This sound, at least, is kind of an affirmative. 

“How about this,” Chris continues patiently, “You get in the shower. Make it hot, don’t turn the fan on, and breathe in all that nice warm steam. Then, when you get out, some room service will be ready for you. You think you could handle some eggs and toast?” 

“I guess,” Seb says, mostly into the pillow. 

“Can you let me hear you turn the shower on?” Chris asks, gentle but insistent. 

“Ugh.” Sebastian pushes himself up off the bed through sheer willpower and shuffles to the bathroom. At least this way he _will_ shower; he can tell wardrobe and makeup to thank Chris for that. 

“Okay, honey,” Chris says, voice softening. “I’m going to order you some room service. Eat it for me, okay?” 

“Okay.” Sebastian’s eaten plenty of other things for Chris, so the least he can do is choke down some toast and some more meds and call it a night. 

“All right,” Chris says. “Let me know when the room service comes.” 

Sebastian says okay again, and is ready to hang up when Chris says, “Sorry I’m not there to take care of you, Seb. I hate it when you’re miserable and I can’t help.” 

Seb switches the phone to his other ear, using his dominant hand to fiddle with the shower settings. 

“It’s okay,” he says, and it’s really more of a croak. “You’re already doing plenty.” 

“Okay,” Chris repeats. “Now get in the shower. And don’t forget. Room service.” 

“I won’t,” Sebastian promises, and he doesn’t. 

The food hurts his throat, but pretty much everything does at this point, so he manages most of it even though he can’t taste much of anything. 

He falls asleep with the lights still on, and wakes up because he’s boiling up, even though he’d climbed under the covers with just boxer briefs on. He doesn’t need the thermometer to know that his fever’s up, and he feels absolutely awful. He stretches back out on top of the covers with the lights off this time, and he doesn’t even wake up until the third time his alarm goes off. 

Okay. Just one day at a time. He did the weekend in Austin-- the crowds, the photo posing, the endless smiling. Now all he has to do is act. It’ll be fine. He’s been acting like he’s not sick and dying all weekend. It’ll be fine. (Or will it?) 

***

The day is a master class in suffering. He arrives in the makeup trailer, and the spritely girl with winged eyeliner bites her lip when she sees him, and then darts a glance at the clock. Sebastian could’ve told her already: making him camera-ready is going to take a while.

Wardrobe’s just as much of a struggle. He manages a smile when they hand over his racing fire suit; he’s sweating already in a tee and boxers, and now he’s going to add a layer of heavy fabric that the wardrobe assistant was delighted to tell him is actually fire-resistant. He dabs gingerly at his brow, careful not to smudge the hard work of the longsuffering makeup artist, and steps into the suit.

He almost asks if the fire-resistant material can help him stop burning from the inside out. The digital thermometer blinked an ominous 103 at him that morning, and he tossed it in the trash. Hollywood waits for no man’s fever. He’d omitted that bit of data from his morning status report to Chris, and then he’d had to set his phone aside.

The day is long in a way that feels unending -- shots that he knows take only minutes to set up feel like hours in the blistering Atlanta sun. There’s a golf cart nearby, and he abandons all dignity and climbs into the seat every time he can. Someone shyly asks for a photo for his son, and Sebastian agrees, but apparently his demeanor is some kind of deterrent, because he doesn’t even turn his body toward the camera before the man snaps the photo and thanks him.

Yeah, that’s going to be a good one.

He even manages to look miserable in the publicity stills they snap, like instead of being upright, he should have his head in someone’s lap, letting them ruffle his already-ridiculous hair. Not even professional lighting can hide the truth.

He’s just so sick.

When one of the hollered directions means his day is finally, finally at an end, he collapses into the golf cart, not even able to feign a smile as he slumps into the seat. Too much energy, and he still has to make it back to wardrobe, strip himself out of this punishment someone called a costume and then get back to the hotel.

He’s gone longer than this without seeing Chris, of course, but four days of feeling like absolute hell combined with four nights on his own … he misses his man. Soup and tea aside, he just wants to be held, wants to pillow his head on Chris’ lap and just rest there. That sounds nice. 

He dozes in the car on the way back to his hotel, something he usually prides himself on not doing. He always tries to make small talk with his driver and at least ask about their day. This day, however, he can’t manage. As soon as he’s in the car his eyes are shut and he’s leaning his burning forehead against the cool tinted glass and enjoying the air conditioning. 

And then the driver is clearing his throat and Sebastian’s waking up flustered, hair sticking to his forehead. 

“We’re here,” the driver says, and Sebastian fumbles his way out of his seatbelt and through a thank you and then through the brief bit of scorching heat into the air-conditioned lobby. 

Once he’s ensconced in the elevator, it’s like the day’s exhaustion washes over him again and all he can think about is crawling right back into the big king size bed and not getting out until tomorrow morning. 

In fact, he’s so distracted by this thought and by how awful he feels that he doesn’t even notice that there’s already someone in his room. 

***

“Seb.” 

Sebastian almost falls over when he hears his name. And then he’s not falling, he’s being crushed by a pair of brawny arms and Chris is holding him. _Chris_. 

Wait-- Chris is here? 

“What’re you doing here?” Sebastian manages raspily when Chris releases him from the hug to hold him at arm’s length. 

“Taking care of you,” Chris says, and presses a long kiss to Sebastian’s forehead, frowning. “Babe, you feel really hot.” 

Sebastian can’t even manage to come up with something suggestive in response, and Chris frowns. He gets Seb seated on the side of the bed, and kneels down to take off his shoes for him. 

“What can I do?” Chris asks when Seb’s suddenly attached to his waist, face buried in his abs. 

“Hold me.” 

Sebastian can’t even be embarrassed by the way he’s clinging to Chris. It’s such a relief to feel the familiar press of Chris’ chest under his cheek, and this is what he wanted, what he’s wanted for the past four days, what he wants always.

Chris, here with him.

He nuzzles his face a little more firmly against Chris’ stomach and mumbles. “Is.”

“What? Seb, hey, what?”

Sebastian grudgingly moves his mouth half an inch away from Chris’ worn tee and repeats, “This. What I needed. You.”

He’s about as coherent as Google Translate, but when Chris tightens his arms around him, pulling him that much closer, bending to kiss the top of his head, he knows the message got through.

Gently, Chris eases him back onto the bed, and as soon as he’s horizontal, Chris is curling up beside him, slipping an arm behind his head. Sebastian nestles into the crook of the offered arm and sighs, breathing in the faint hint of Chris’ cologne that still lingers. 


	2. Costa Rica

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You all saw those Weibo pics from Costa Rica, right? And like us, you saw the telltale redness in those cheeks and thought, "You know, there's a story there ..." (Honestly: separately, we both looked at those photos and saw it and then it was "did you SEE" and "I KNOW" and like I said, we're weirdos, but man, it's fun.)

This time, Atlanta’s been good to him. He made it through an entire shoot and part of another there, maintaining a level of good health that prompted exactly zero floods of concern on social media. Well, mostly -- the 20-pound weight loss (and the mustache) required for a role stirred up some talk, but he’s built in a little distance from his Instagram tag these days. 

Nothing good comes from checking that. 

Now it’s off to Costa Rica, to wind up filming and grab a few days’ downtime before he starts prep for the next installment of Marvel. Maybe the last time he’ll be Bucky to Chris’ Steve, the last time he’ll step onto the same set where Chris is, the last time they’ll carry a scene together. It feels like the right thing to take a few days and explore a new place while he explores his feelings about the possible end of Steve and Bucky’s cinematic era.

When he tells fans and interviewers that he doesn’t know what’s coming, it’s absolutely true. Where his script ends, so does his knowledge. 

So he’s going to spend a few days with his toes in the sand rather than his head, think about how his future will change when Chris’ role in it changes and, of course, sip a few pipa frías. The crew had introduced him to the chilled drink made with fresh coconut water, and its refreshing taste in the heat would have been enough to sell him, but then there was a bonus on top of the vitamin content and the energy boost.

Supposedly it’s an aphrodisiac. 

***

Packing for this trip had put him in another mood entirely. Chris had apparently checked the Centers for Disease Control website and found a map showing the potential risk of Zika. 

_THE WHOLE MAP IS PURPLE_ was the first in a string of panicky texts along the lines of warnings most people would expect from an overwrought grandparent. 

_I like purple!_

_Purple means ZIKA. You like infected mosquitoes transferring a virus to your body, seb? bc that’s not a kink we’ve discussed._

The eyeroll emoji seems like the only response.

He sends an entire string of eyeroll emojis when the package arrives the day before he flies out. 

_What the hell is oil of lemon eucalyptus, and do I really need two bottles of it? Also, I’m pretty sure they sell insect repellant IN COSTA RICA._

_But will it have at least 20% deet and would you even bother to check?_

_You’re killing me._

_Better me than ZIKA!_

“Remains to be seen,” Sebastian mutters.

***

They wrap and he checks into his rental, an open-air marvel that suits the way he’s approaching this escape.

He downs a pipa fría, and then another, and then he settles onto the porch. Today, the lounge chair; tomorrow, the hammock.

He snaps a photo of his view: blue sky stretching down to touch the blue water lapping onto the beach. 

_Wish you were here_ is an obvious caption, bordering on trite, but he means it. To have Chris in the chair next to him, sky-and-sea eyes taking in all of this before settling on Sebastian with that familiar fondness? That would tip this pretty peace into paradise.

Paradise with blow jobs and an outdoor shower.

The phone buzzes in his hand, and as is Chris’ preference, it’s FaceTime. Seb taps a long finger on the screen to connect the call, and then swivels the camera to show Chris the ocean in real time. It’s high tide, and there’s a breeze blowing in from the water -- only 50 meters away, the rental description and the owner had both stressed with pride -- and they’ve both done their fair share of travel, but this place is special.

“No, hey,” Chris protests. “The whole point is _time_ with your _face_. Seb. Come on.”

Seb laughs and stands up, draining the last of his third pipa fría. “I know, hang on, though. Let me give you the tour.”

Chris lets Sebastian tipsily ramble about the house and its “super, super open” floor plan for almost fifteen minutes before he says, “Hey,” in a different tone of voice. 

Sebastian pauses. He knows that tone. 

“You make a good real estate agent, Seb, but it’s getting late for me. Do you wanna--?” Chris doesn’t say all of it; doesn’t have to. Sebastian knows exactly what he’s getting at. 

“Yes, yes, god, yes, Chris.” Sebastian gushes, and maybe the drinks are a little stronger than he’d thought? 

He’s setting up the iPad on the little table between the chairs on the patio when Chris clears his throat. 

“Um, Seb?” 

“Yeah?” He’s already got his shorts unbuttoned and unzipped. 

“Do you really want to do this outside?” 

Sebastian shrugs and keeps unzipping. “It’s a private house, Chris.” 

Chris laughs, and Sebastian could bask in that noise forever. 

“Okay, champ. If you say so.” 

***

Sebastian normally feels a little awkward having phone sex or, well, FaceTime sex in this case, even with Chris. But this time it’s like the pipa frías freed him up, and he’s completely comfortable letting Chris see and hear him, saying filthy things above a whisper. It helps that the house doesn’t have any neighbors for over a mile. 

It also helps to see the look on Chris’ face as Seb’s hand slides down his stomach to wrap around his cock, and it helps to hear the moan Chris tries to stifle as Seb’s hand starts a slow slide, up and down, focusing on the feel and not the frenzy. He wants, but he’s not in a hurry about it, in sight of the ocean with warm breeze licking over his skin, liquid lust a pleasant burn through his whole body. His toes curl a little on the upstroke, and it’s good, it feels good, but --

“Wish it was you touching me.”

He hears Chris’ hand pick up speed before he focuses on it, and oh yeah, knowing that he’s getting to Chris is an extra boost. So he keeps talking.

“Twist your wrist. Like I do. Always makes you lose it for me. Come on, I wanna see you lose it for me.”

Chris makes Seb’s favorite noise then, that helpless groan that seems like it’s drawn up from his toes, the one that sounds like maybe he wants to draw this out, make it last, let it linger … but he can’t. It’s a point of pride, being the reason Chris comes undone like this, and the harder Chris tries to hang on, the more determined Sebastian is to send him flying over the edge.

The world knows a lot of Chris’ expressions, but the lazy haze of Chris Evans blissed out from an orgasm that Sebastian Stan gave him? No one else gets this. And right now, seeing that sleepy smile is the only thing Seb wants.

“Come on,” Seb urges again, letting his fingers slide over his own flesh a little faster, leaning back to give Chris a better view. The answering groan pushes Seb to his own edge -- the soundtrack to this amateur porn video is Oscar worthy -- and even though there’s no loser here, not when Chris looks like that and the burn in Seb’s veins feels like this … he wants to win.

“Fuck, I wish this was your mouth.”

That mouth is occupied, growling out Sebastian’s name as Chris comes all over his bare stomach, and the sight of that sends Seb chasing after him. And now they’re both punch-drunk, and Sebastian’s sprawled in a chair steps from the ocean, and this is kind of a beautiful life.

No blow jobs in the cards, but he’s still got that outdoor shower. And maybe, just maybe, he scouted a place to prop his phone there earlier. So once that boneless, languid feeling dissipates, Chris can help him clean up.

***

Sebastian’s always been an adventurous eater-- he grew up in Eastern Europe, after all -- and Costa Rica is no place to stop that habit. He tries all sorts of street dishes and things he can’t really pronounce from restaurant menus. He asks for recommendations from Costa Rican fans and enthusiastically tries them all. He had to drop 20 pounds for _I, Tonya_ , and he’s still working on catching back up. 

It seems like there are delicious things to eat just about everywhere he looks, and he gladly partakes. 

Ceviche is easy; he’s had it before and loves it.

He also loves the bizcochos, unsurprisingly: baked corn and cheese is a hard thing to get wrong, and it reminds him of suggesting chipsfrisch for Bucky’s stash of snacks in Bucharest. That sad little apartment demanded some quality snacks, and Sebastian’d been only too glad to sample them. Just to see if they were as good as he remembered.

It must be the sopa de mariscos (shellfish soup) that takes him down in the end. It’s all he can think of, as his kneecaps are screaming from prolonged contact with the tile floor in front of the toilet. 

***

It comes on quickly, like flipping a light switch. One moment he’s fine; the next, puking his guts up. Although when he really thinks about it, maybe it’s not so sudden after all. There’s a reason why he stayed home from the cigar bar and decided to make an early night of it. And maybe his sweatiness wasn’t just the humidity, but incipient fever. 

If he really thinks about it, he’d be lying to himself if he said that he hadn’t felt a little off since his early dinner. 

The really unfortunate thing is that it hits in the middle of FaceTiming Chris. That vague feeling of unease he ignores while he’s showing Chris the open-air bungalow he’s renting is suddenly rising up his throat and he barely manages to choke out a “gotta go” before he’s lunging for the bathroom, dropping his phone on the floor as he bolts.

He didn’t even manage to disconnect the call, which he doesn’t realize until hours later, after he’s managed to peel his clammy body off the floor. Doubly unfortunate, given the way the sound echoes through the space, so Chris hears every miserable noise.

Later, Chris’ll tell him that eventually, everything got quiet, which he took as a good sign -- Seb would come back to the phone, offer a little reassurance and Chris would watch him crawl into bed.

That’s not how it happens. Exhausted and afraid to move more than half a foot from the toilet, Seb ended up slumped on the floor, with his cheek pressed to the cool green tile, not fully asleep but drifting in some fevered in-between. He’s there for an hour, imagining himself being attacked from the inside by an indignant squad of squid and clams, aided by a battalion of shrimp and mussels, battering the lining of his stomach until he releases them back into the water.

He loses the battle, along with the rest of everything remaining in his stomach, gagging painfully until he can’t do anything but choke up bile. Finally he feels steady enough to stagger toward bed, keeping a hand on the wall for support as he slowly stands and steps out of the bathroom into the harsh light of a beautiful Costa Rican day streaming into the house. It’s then he finally sees his phone, abandoned on the floor.

_Well, shit._

Six missed FaceTime calls.

Another six missed calls.

And seven texts, probably because Chris saw the other totals and figured casually invoking the devil was the last thing Seb needed, even if neither of them are particularly religious. 

He groans before he even reads the messages, feeling the guilt settle on top of the grimy sheen of illness on his skin. Chris’ll understand, of course, but the worry is going to hit a new level, making overprotective St. Bernard look like a fond memory. 

Reluctantly, he taps Chris’ name in the FaceTime menu as he slides onto the bed and experiences instant horizontal bliss. Might as well get this over with. As the call’s connecting, he takes in his own pale, sweaty face and prepares himself for the onslaught of concern.

“Seb, fuck, are you okay? I heard you -- you’re sick -- and then there was just nothing. It’s been like three hours, and I didn’t even know it could _be_ that quiet, and you didn’t answer, and I thought …”

“Violent rejection of local cuisine,” Seb quips weakly, and his stomach churns with what might be one last determined mussel. “Please wait about twenty years before you offer me shellfish.”

“Jesus,” Chris sighs, and the exhalation is thick with equal amounts of frustration and affection. “Could you, just once, manage to stay well when I’m not there with you? You’re killing me.”

Seb hears the “I love you” in those words and grins despite the pain in his stomach.

“You’re not flying down here,” Seb warns. “Coming to Atlanta was enough. Consider this my official take-back of that wish you were here text. You don’t.” 

“I do,” Chris says forcefully, but with no heat behind it. At least no heat equal to the fever once again raging through Sebastian’s bloodstream. 

Seb promises to check in, and this time, he manages to disconnect before he falls asleep, ungracefully drooling into the pillow.

***

The nurse’s name is Maria Isabel, said all together like one word. Sebastian just blinks at her, at her nametag, and back at the sweet little smile on her face, now beginning to falter. 

“Mr. Stan?” She asks again, the “s” in his last name predicated by a little “eh”, making it sound more like “eh-stan,” and Sebastian would probably find that endearing if he weren’t so-- well. _Sick_. 

The nurse tries one more time. “Mr. Evans sent?” 

Then, finally, it clicks. “Oh. Chris sent you.” Yup, it all makes sense now. Sebastian gestures Nurse Maria Isabel into the room, because he’s starting to feel more than a little woozy and like he’d much rather not be standing up. 

Before he lets the nurse do nurse-y things, Sebastian sends a one-word text to Chris: _Asshole_. 

***

He FaceTimes with Chris later on, from the bathtub. It’s a lot less sexy than it sounds. 

“I felt way worse in Austin, babe,” Sebastian says, skimming a hand over the top of the water. There was a little TV tray in the closet and he has the iPad set up on it next to the tub. 

“That’s… not reassuring.” Chris’ expression is about 60% concern, 40% annoyance. 

“Chris. Babe. I’m fine.” Sebastian scoots a little lower down in the water, so only his head and the very top of his shoulders aren’t submerged. “Look, I already feel a lot better. I haven’t puked in like, I don’t know, an hour?” 

“Wow.” Chris is deadpan. “A whole hour. Yup, you’re a picture of perfect health.” 

“I never said that.” Seb pouts a little, but Chris is still all business. 

“What was your temp when the nurse came?” 

Sebastian sinks down further and mumbles. 

“What was that?” 

“One oh three.” He tries to look nonchalant about it, but he still pretty much feels terrible, so he guesses it doesn’t really have quite the right effect on Chris. 

Chris, who all but exclaims, “Christ, Seb! That’s high for an adult. You’re killin’ me over here.” 

“Pretty sure you didn’t have the soup.”

“Not funny. Listen, if it’s that high tomorrow when she comes back, she’s taking you to a doctor. Or a fuckin’ hospital.”

Seb sighs and Chris actually points an index finger at him, jabbing the screen of his own phone. 

“I get to know you’re okay.”

“Fine.” Sebastian halfheartedly flicks a little water at the iPad screen. “Okay,” he says a moment later. “I think I’m going to finish up in here and then go to bed. Do you concur, Dr. Evans?” 

Chris’ face looks stuck between a wink and a scowl, as if he’s loving the mental image of playing doctor but still upset about how Seb’s sick and he can’t be there to help. 

“Okay. Just-- text me whenever, okay? Keep me posted.” 

“Will do.” 

Sebastian signs off, and then does exactly as he’d told Chris he would. He finishes up in the bath, and dries himself off quickly with a fluffy towel, shivering even in the humid air. He puts on clean sweats from his suitcase and only manages to climb under the sheets before falling asleep. 

***

Sebastian wakes up to a string of texts from Chris, who says: 

_And here I was worried about zika_

_And you get food poisoning_

_Jesus, Seb._

Sebastian blinks, then sits up. His brain feels a little foggy and he’s still a little achy and chilled, but at least he made it through the night without puking up his stomach lining. 

_Just woke up. I’m okay, Chris. Really._

Chris immediately texts back. 

_Nurse is on her way. Hope you have pants on._ A pause, and then _And she’ll be the judge of whether you’re okay. And whether you can get on a plane tonight._

The frown takes energy Sebastian’s not really sure he has. Not getting on that plane -- not getting back to New York -- isn’t an option. He has obligations. And also he could really use some of Chris’ cuddles right about now. 

***

By the time the knock comes, Sebastian’s out of bed and has splashed some water on his face and put a t-shirt on. 

Unfortunately, nurse María Isabel isn’t deterred by Sebastian’s immediate protests that he’s _fine, really,_ and doesn’t need any sort of check up. 

She matter-of-factly retrieves thermometer from her bag and goes about feeling Sebastian’s glands and asking when was the last time he vomited. 

Sebastian never thought he’d be so proud of something so banal but he’s glad to tell her that it’s been over twelve hours. 

The nurse looks nonplussed, and when she retrieves the thermometer from his mouth a minute later, and says, “37.9,” he’s glad for his metric system upbringing and almost cheers. 

María Isabel remains unimpressed. “You still have fever,” she tells him. 

“Yeah,” Seb adds in. “But I can fly, at least.” 

She sighs and mutters the word “incorrigible” not quite under her breath. 

Sebastian smiles. “That’s me!” 

***

He texts Chris triumphantly after the nurse leaves: _See you tonight! Clean bill of health_

Chris types back _I already got the report from the nurse_ , and even in text, his annoyance comes across loud and clear. Sebastian can just picture Chris, frustratedly poking at his phone, torn between annoyance at Sebastian and desire to see him again. 

_Okay, fine, I’m not 100%. But I’m well enough to come home, okay? Promise._

There’s a pause, then Chris’ reply: _Fine. See you at home. I love you, but you’re still on my shit list_

Sebastian smiles. _Wouldn’t be me otherwise._

 _Too true_ , Chris responds, and Sebastian sighs. He can’t wait to be home and to let Chris cuddle and coddle him a little. Sure, his fever’s way down and he feels okay enough to travel, but he’s still a little out of it and doesn’t exactly feel like running any marathons. Or even eating breakfast, for that matter. 

He decides to go back to bed for a while-- he doesn’t have to check out of the Airbnb until after noon, and he may as well catch some more z’s while he can. Despite the illness, he likes Costa Rica-- there’s a certain languid rhythm to life there that’s impossible to find in the bustle of New York. It’s relaxing, and he’s glad for it, since what’s coming up is far from relaxing-- he still has six pictures left on his Marvel deal, and plenty of other opportunities besides. It’s not that he doesn’t love it, but still, a break every once in awhile is nice-- even if he has to be sick to get it. 

***

His flight is uneventful, and he dozes through most of it, goes through deplaning and customs on autopilot. He’s fighting yawns as he finds the driver holding the sign with “STAN” on it and follows him to the parking area. 

He’s so out of it that it takes him a minute to process that there’s already someone in the backseat of the Town Car. 

“... Chris?!” 

***

Chris, as has been noted before, is a champion at long-distance caretaking. But what the majority doesn’t know, is that he’s also pretty world-class at it in person, too. 

Sebastian melts into Chris’ embrace like butter on warm toast. 

“Hey,” Chris says, drawing back a little. “You look okay, y’know?” 

“Just okay?” Sebastian feigns a pout as the driver gets in and they start the slow, traffic-laden drive away from LaGuardia. 

Chris kisses his neck. “Better than okay, babe. Just-- I mean. In Austin, you looked like _shit_.” 

“Gee, thanks,” Sebastian says. “Happy homecoming to you, too.” 

Chris squeezes Sebastian’s hand. “No, no, you know what I mean. Just-- you were so sick last time, so I’m glad this time you’re doing better.” 

“I know.” Sebastian squeezes back. “Just giving you a hard time.” He yawns again, and lets his head drop onto Chris’ shoulder. 

“Do we have soup at home?” He asks as Chris runs his fingers through Sebastian’s hair. 

“Of course,” Chris answers, and Sebastian feels him press a kiss to the top of his head. “Now rest, babe. I’ll wake you up when we get home.” 

And Sebastian does. 

**Author's Note:**

> If you'd like to come say hello, scream about the fic or its characters on Tumblr, please do! Over there, we're [whowaswillbe](http://whowaswillbe.tumblr.com) and [superstringtheory](http://superstringtheory.tumblr.com).


End file.
